


HOLTS SUMMIT, MISSOURI

by Wolfiekins



Series: DARK ROADS [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, M/M, Male Slash, Mild Sexual Content, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week after Sammy had his say, Dean can't sleep, and it's not because of the freakin' lumpy mattress. Takes place between the Season One episodes "Hell House" and "Something Wicked".</p><p>WARNINGS:  Explicit Language, UST, Angst</p>
            </blockquote>





	HOLTS SUMMIT, MISSOURI

**Author's Note:**

> Sam and Dean maneuver a mine field of muddled emotions and murky expectations as they search for the Demon that killed their mother. Rambling series that begins partway through season one and explores how the brothers come to terms with their mutual attraction for one another. Part Two of Five.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: All SUPERNATURAL characters and settings remain the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. & The CW. No offence intended nor monies made from this presentation. For entertainment purposes only.

 

 

I just fuckin’ hate it.

The whole sick, twisted, intensely screwed up mess that‘s laughingly referred to as my life. 

All of it. 

I want to laugh every time I think about how truly messed up it is.

They say if you’re still able to laugh, then you’re doing okay. Well, there’s another one of society’s little clichés that’s totally off the fuckin’ mark. 

I’m still laughin’ but I’m definitely not okay. 

As a matter of fact, I’m so far from it there’s no word for where I‘m at. 

I shift around on the lumpy motel mattress, trying to get comfortable. I could just tell the beds were gonna suck the instant we pulled into the parking lot. You get an eye for that stuff in our line of work. The name was a dead giveaway, too: The Hide-A-Way. Anyplace with a hyphenated name is suspect. And a South Seas theme, smack in the middle of goddamned show-me-Missouri, too. Well, I feel like I’m sleeping on a fucking clamshell, so at least _that_ worked out. 

I swear I’m not letting Sasquatch drive anymore. He always picks the shittiest dives to sleep in. At least there was a decent diner across the street. An honest to god diner, too, called Rosie’s. And there was actually an old broad named Rosie slinging the hash. It was all cool until that dumb ass waitress of ours, Cherie, made a comment about how we made such a _cute couple_. I freakin' hate that shit. We get that all the time, and it drives me crazy, like there's something tattooed on our foreheads. The fact that Sam thinks it's funny whenever this happens really, really pisses me off. I hate stereotypes, not that we even remotely resemble any that I'm aware of. 

People, man. They just don't think before they open their mouths. I could have asked Cherie when the final surgery for her gender re-assignment was scheduled. I mean, she really looked like fuckin' Dick Cheney in a bad Kmart wig and too much make-up. That's what I was thinking, but I sure as hell didn't _say_ it. I'm hoping the handful of green pennies I left as a tip sent the right message.

 _Shit._

I squirm a bit more to try to keep my ass from falling asleep. Damned spring or cross member or whatever the hell is poking right into me. I’m not at all worried about waking Sam, though. He sleeps like the dead and once he’s out, he’s out. 

I stare down at him in the gloom, curled up on his side, facing me, blanket across his waist, one hand under his pillow, the other barely touching my hip. He looks happy, content even, and I imagine he’s got the slightest smile on his face, too. I don’t know why I let him into my bed. I know I shouldn’t, but then again, I’m not exactly using my upstairs brain here.

It’d be so easy to just say _fuck it,_ to take a deep breath and lean over, run my fingers through his hair, nuzzle my way down his cheek and jaw, suck in his scent and lock my lips onto his. To let my hand slide under that blanket, along his stomach and down inside his boxer briefs. 

Damn.

But it’s not that simple. Nothing ever is.

It’s been a mess ever since Sammy spilled his guts to me in Indiana, ever since he dropped his guard and let out those words, the ones that I‘d been dying to hear for so long. I still can’t believe he said it, and only after a couple of beers, too. 

Pretty heavy duty shit, man. 

Like I've finally been handed what I've always wanted, and now I don't want it. I mean I do, but I can't. 

Or whatever the hell.

Yeah, I’ve been a total wasteoid ever since.

I felt things start to spin out of control right then and there, him staring at me, those fucking, goddamned gorgeous eyes of his burning right through me like a blow torch. 

He doesn’t know that I didn’t sleep at all that night. That I laid there, in the same bed, so damned starved and hungry for his touch that I couldn’t even sleep. Didn’t want to. It felt so damn good, his hand on mine, feeling his warmth, hearing the slow, steady sounds of his breathing as he slept. 

It was fucking awesome, and even though I was totally ragged out from lack of sleep the next day, I didn’t care. 

He doesn’t have a clue what he does to me. Every little expression or gesture, the slightest smile or tiniest laugh. Sure, sometimes he drives me up the wall, and I want to slap the shit out of the little bastard, but that's just the way it is. We're brothers, after all. 

But the thing is, he fucking owns me, and he can’t know about it. 

Ever.

I mean, what would he think if he knew that I’d wanted him ever since he graduated high school? That I’d been stroking myself off to images of him in my head for years? That I fought it, the way I feel about him, that I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't shake it? 

I’ve hated myself for holding on to that shit, so I channeled it into the hunts, taking out my aggressions on whatever twisted fucking monster or demon or spirit we run across. 

Man, if I didn’t have the hunts, I’d be in some serious trouble. 

And I’m supposed to be the responsible one, the one watching out for him. 

Right. 

So baby brother goes ahead and drops the bomb, spills his guts and says he fucking loves me, that he's not going to leave me, and then he starts mackin’ on me like some virgin prom queen hot to bust her cherry before morning. Well, maybe not that heavy, but close.

I should be happy, right? Problem solved. 

Wrong. 

First off, I’m not even sure it wasn’t just the beer talking. Maybe I’m reading too much into things. I mean, Sammy’s the king of emo, always wanting to talk about his feelings and ready to have touchy-feely rap sessions and group hugs at the drop of a hat. Maybe he just meant that he wouldn't bail once we killed the Demon. 

Maybe that’s all it is. 

But the way he looked at me; I know I saw something in his eyes. Something burning, hot, needy. Something that I recognized right off. And I've caught him looking at me, out of the corner of his eye or over the top of his laptop. Watching as I dress or shave or even brush my teeth. So that's why I'm thinking he meant a bit more. That he really wants to be _with_ me, all the way. Shit, my stomach does flip flops just thinking about it.

Even if I’m right, and he was saying what I think he was saying, I still can’t believe he’s really ready for it. Ready for us to leap off that fucking cliff, together. He can’t be. He loved Jess; I know it. He’d of married her, if...well, if things were different. And he wouldn’t even be here now, with me.

So how could he really, truly want me, then? 

The door to the room next to us slams so hard the hideous shell art collage thing over our bed rattles. I can hear some chick nagging her boyfriend about oversleeping. He argues back, and they keep at it, totally oblivious that there just might be some other humanoids inhabiting the planet they're on. Their voices are cut off with a pair of nearly simultaneous door slams, and their car revs to life, headlights flooding through the thin curtains drawn across the front window of our room. Assholes. A deva would come in pretty handy about now.

I watch Sam sleep for awhile, surprised when my hand reaches out and ghosts across his cheek. I snatch my hand back and he snuffles, shifting slightly closer to me. 

Sammy's been on cloud nine since Indiana. He thinks he's hit on something, something big, something we never talk about. He doesn't have a clue. He's barely scratched the surface of it. 

Yeah, _it_. The fucking elephant in the room. That big, stinky bastard that never goes away. 

Did Sammy just got tired of ignoring it? 

Part of me keeps thinking that he’s right. I want him to be. I want _him_. God, do I, more than anything. 

But then reality sets in, everything spirals off into la la land, and I’ve barely been able to think straight since. That’s not a good thing. Can’t have that. One little slip, and one or both of us are dead. 

I fucked up big time in Texas, and all we were dealing with there was a pair of major dorks and a fucking website. I was totally off game, focusing more on practical jokes and the next prank that I was going to pull on Sam than I was on the hunt. 

All because I let myself go. Because I let my guard down for a week, thinking that just maybe, I could have some kind of a normal life. That _we_ could have one, and it would be something like it was when we were kids. Before the Demons. Before the hunting and all the nasty shit.

Whoa. Now that’s another fucking problem right there. A normal life? Two brothers screwing around with each other? Damn, bring on the straightjackets and haldol.

Anyway, because I had my head up my ass, because I was actually allowing myself to entertain the idea of an _us_ , Sammy was nearly strangled by a manufactured ghost, a manifestation of every geeky, pimply faced teenager or loser adult with a computer and a high-speed internet connection. 

How screwed up is that?

And my solution to the whole thing? Burn down Mordecai’s house. 

Good one, Dean. I can only imagine what Dad would’ve said about _that_ cluster fuck.

But again, Sammy’s happier than I’ve seen him in ages. I fucking love it when he’s like this. He’s actually more into the hunt when he’s up. He’s firing on all cylinders, and it kills me to think that I’m gonna have to shoot him down. 

I just don’t know how yet, but it’s gotta be done, and fast. The longer it goes on, the longer he believes that we can actually let ourselves do this, the harder it’ll be to quit. 

It’s cool that we’ve mostly kept things the way they were since Indiana. I haven’t talked about it, and neither has he, but I can tell that he’s literally bursting to bring it up again. 

So outwardly, we keep on as we always have. Except for the little touches. The way he leans into me and lingers there a bit more than he did. The way he reaches around me in the bathroom, his bare, wet skin against mine, or how his fingers hover over mine when I hand him a beer. And the sharing the bed thing. Bad idea. Nothing’s happened yet, but it’s only a matter of time or the right amount of beer, and whammo, I’ll cross that line never be able to get back.

All the little things seem to add up though, making it harder and harder for me to stop it, to pull back. It's almost like he’s a dealer, doling out tiny doses of himself just to string me along. He’s not fucking with me, though. Sammy’s not devious that way, not at all. But I'm addicted, have been forever. 

So I sit up most nights, wracking my brain, trying to come up with a plan that won’t rip his heart out. That won’t hurt him too badly. But I can’t seem to figure anything out right now, and I’m not sure whether it’s because of all the shit on my mind or if it’s because part of me really doesn’t want it to stop. 

I do my best to hide everything from him, all the crap, and it’s work, believe me, to keep my game face on, ‘cause if anyone knows when something’s up with me, it’s Sammy. He knows me inside and out, but not everything. There are some things he doesn‘t know. Can‘t know. 

The one thing I’m certain of is that he’s not going to like it when I finally get my balls back and quit acting like some dumb chick in a cheesy date flick. 

I tried a little something last night, when we were having a few beers with our burgers at some roadside dive. Sammy was all engrossed in his research, trying to figure out what was up with our next hunt, his head buried in a stack of day old papers we‘d nicked from a convenience store. He gets so into his shit it’s almost funny. 

So damned serious. Such the college boy. 

There were these two girls giving us the eye. Sammy didn’t notice; he never does. He doesn’t have a clue how many chicks stare him down. 

So I decide to chat these babes up a bit. They’re nice, clueless, and more than into us. I told them we were independent film producers on our way to New York or some such crap. Not that I needed the line. I never have a problem getting laid. Once I pour on the charm, game over. That’s one of my few talents, and I’m sure as shit not apologizing for it. 

So these two gals are hot to trot, and all Sammy’s gotta do is to give the word and we’re on. A great plan. Or so I thought. He didn’t give the word. I guess I didn’t really expect him to, but I also didn’t expect him to look so hurt. So fucking devastated. 

He barely looked me in the eye for the rest of the evening, and I felt like a complete, fucking bastard. 

So what am I gonna do? How do I handle this? I’ve got to figure something out. That’s what I do. It’s my job. I take care of things and I’ve been doing a crappy job of it lately.

I glance at the alarm clock on the bed stand: four fifty-one. Another sleepless night. I’ll have Sam drive again tomorrow, and I’ll catch some Z’s on the way to Fitchburg. Neither of us has been able to figure out what’s waiting for us there. I have an idea, but I'd rather not think about it, let alone clue Sammy into it. All we know for certain is Dad wants us there, so there we go.

I just close my eyes when Sam jerks in his sleep. The next thing I know, he’s grunting and moaning, his entire body twitching beneath the covers. I look over at him, and I can tell he’s dreaming again. 

It rips my heart out when I hear Jess’s name escape him in a whimpering groan. He has nightmares all the time; or maybe they’re visions. I don’t really know which, because he never talks about them in the morning. Sometimes he does, when they have something to do with a hunt. But that's rare. Mostly, though, he doesn't talk about them. I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t remember them or if he doesn’t want me to know. It’d be just like him to keep things to himself and not bother me with ‘em. 

Sometimes he calls out my name in the dark, or for dad. I’ve never heard him call for mom, though. 

He thrashes a bit more, his face all screwed up into a grimace, and I reach over, carefully laying my hand on his shoulder. I lean down and touch my forehead to his, and he calms instantly, almost as if he knows it’s me. I smile as he stops muttering, his breathing slowly returning to normal. 

I scoot back over to my side of the bed and hunker down, finally ready to try to sleep, if only for an hour. Sam grunts and rolls over, throwing a long arm across my chest. He works his head against my shoulder and slides closer until his entire body is pressed against mine. He gives a contented sigh and starts snoring softly.

 _Fuck._

He feels so goddamned good, and I’m hard in an instant. My brain slides sideways, and suddenly I can barely keep myself from climbing right on top of him and letting it all go. Somehow, I manage to stay still, my heart thudding in my chest, the blood roaring in my ears. 

I fucking want him. But I can’t have him. 

I want to shove him away. But I don’t.

I wanna fucking devour him, my lips, teeth and tongue worshipping every inch of that body of his. 

But I stop myself. Barely.

Man, I’m totally, completely fucked up. Always have been. But it’s not just because I want my brother that way. I love him. With a capital fucking ‘L’. 

Far gone and out. 

I can’t even remember when it skidded from your garden variety brotherly love and right into the twilight zone. And I’m not queer. I’m not into guys, although I’ve been with more than a few. Sometimes I need something different, a strong hand, someone to take control. Sometimes I’m just too fucking horny or drunk and don’t care who sucks my dick. 

And I'm pretty sure Sammy's not gay, either. At least I don't think he is. I fucking hate labels. Not that it matters anyway. Real world rules don't apply to us Winchesters. I'd hoped that it was just me that was totally screwed up. Guess not. 

Sammy’s my life, though. He’s my purpose, my reason for being. Maybe that’s how it always was...it just took me a long time to realize it. 

Right from when Dad shoved him into my arms on that horrible night, I’ve known that he was mine, my responsibility. 

I had to take care of him, and I did, not because I had to. I wanted to. 

Dad did the best that he could, but even then I knew he was pretty messed up. I didn’t know any other way. That was the way things were, and I didn’t realize that other people lived differently until much later. Hell, I thought everyone’s dad had a trunk filled with machetes, cleaned shotguns while they watched Jeopardy, and disappeared for days at a time.

It’s always been Sammy and me. Dad taught us how to hunt. I taught Sam everything else. That was my world. Raising him. Changing him, feeding him, teaching him how ride a bike, catch a baseball. Riding his ass to eat his vegetables and clean his plate. To do his homework before watching TV. Ignoring his bawling when I’d send him to his room for not fucking listening to me. 

I didn’t mind it at all. I wouldn’t change a single second of it for anything.

Even the part when Sam left for Stanford and I just sat on the couch for what seemed like days, feeling empty, crying for the first time since mom died. I was hurt and pissed off that he left, but I was also proud. Sammy was getting out, and he was going to make something of himself. I’d hate every damn minute of not having him in my life any longer, but just knowing that he’d made it...

That’s probably when I realized it. Just how much I needed Sam. Loved him, more than anything else. 

I was nothing but a giant, gaping hole without him. 

And that’s probably why I jumped right into dad’s footsteps. Hunting took my mind off of him, covered up the hole inside but not filling it. Not by a long shot. 

And then the Demons rose up, Dad disappeared, and I broke down and dragged Sammy back into it. It was selfish and I didn’t think it through. I thought I was strong enough to ignore it, to pretend that I didn’t really feel the way that I did. Hoping that I’d gotten over it. Over him. 

But I was dead fucking wrong. 

Sammy’d been back with me for less than a week and I’d known it then. I still loved him. And not only that, I was in love with him. 

I can't imagine going on without him. He's what keeps me going, what holds me together. I love it when we're on the road and I'm behind the wheel, Sammy sprawled out asleep on the seat next to me, nothing but a long, winding road ahead of us. I imagine us driving forever then, the Impala rumbling steadily, smoothly, as ever, until the road finally ends and we can stop, stop hunting, stop killing, stop running. And maybe have some kind of life, the two of us. 

A load of crap, I know. Sometimes I feel like I'm turning into a chick. But that's what I think of.

There’ll never be anyone else for me. I can cruise and pick up and fuck women every night from here to doomsday, but all the while I’m fighting off seeing him in my mind’s eye when I do it. Biting my tongue so I don’t say his name when I come. 

It’s sick and it’s wrong, but that’s the way it is. I can’t change now, even if I wanted to. Just like Sammy says, there’s no way either of us could live a normal life. We’re both too damaged, too screwed up. 

Sam shifts around a bit moaning softly against my chest. I caress that mop of hair of his, my mind racing.

So why can’t I let it happen? I want it. I think he wants it. Never mind all the deviant, perverted overtones, and the fact that Dad would kick both our asses clear into next week if he found out. 

The cheap little alarm clock on the bed stand snaps on, the red numbers glowing five forty-three. Some electro-poppy shit’s playing - that’s what happens when Sam chooses the station. Indie rock crap. All emo and angst and messages and shit. Gimme classic rock any day. But I’m too lazy, or more likely, tired to reach over and fuss with it. 

I lay there, Sammy snoring away, Depeche Mode, I think, telling me to ‘enjoy the silence’ or something. 

So why not, then?

Because if I let him in, all the way in, we’re vulnerable. I won’t be able to protect him the way I need to. I’ll lose my focus, my concentration'll wander, and the one time I’m staring at his ass in those jeans of his, or daydreaming about what I want to do to him in some motel room, some fucking nasty will rise up and take us out. 

I made a promise to take care of him. To watch out for him. And I can’t do that if I’m mooning over him like some lovesick high school kid. It’d be too damn distracting. And Sammy deserves better. He deserves someone normal. Sane. And that's not me.

He’ll understand that. He knows the stakes. He’s the smart one. 

And it’s not like he really knows how deep in the shit I am over him. I cover my tracks pretty damn well. Not like I have to work hard to play the butch stud. But then he’s got the shine to him, so maybe he knows more than he lets on. Either way, the answer’s the same.

But whatever I do, I need to get it over with. Shit or get off the pot, as Dad used to say.

I gently pull away from Sam, and he mumbles something as I slip out of bed. I pull the sheets up to his shoulders, hovering over him like a wraith, unable to stop myself from giving the side of his head a soft kiss. 

“Ass,” I murmur to myself as I grab my duffle and head for the bathroom. I flip on the light and close the door, shaking my head as I stare at my reflection in the shell-shaped mirror over the sink. 

“Are you lookin’ at me?” I say, doing my best Robert DeNiro. “Are you fuckin’ lookin’ at me?” 

I turn on the faucets, hoping to whatever's listening that the hot water in this dump lasts long enough for me to have a nice, long jerk. 

I shove down my boxers and grab my soap and shampoo. I’m already hard when I step into the ridiculously turquoise tub and yank the shower curtain closed. It’s decorated with large blue, green and yellow angelfish. Smiling angelfish. 

Christ.

I may not be able to ever really have Sammy, but I can still imagine it, right? 

I close my eyes and lather myself up, my fingers sliding down my stomach, Sammy’s name on my lips, losing myself in the hot water and steam and mist.

 

**_~~~ fin ~~~_ **

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 


End file.
